


Sforzando!!

by deltachye



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Concert Band, Band Fic, Comedy, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance, Romantic Comedy, as an ex concert band kid. toot toot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-09 21:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8912443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye
Summary: [band!au reader x various haikyuu]You had me at cello.





	1. fermata ; bokuto

 

_musica nunc dignas habitet sua praemia laurus; prorsus et immensum propellit lumina cordi._

* * *

 

_fermata: a pause of unspecified length on a note or rest._

“[Name]. [Name]. [Name]! [Naaaame]—”

“What, Bokuto?!”

You said this with your mouth still half on your instrument, so that the words came out with a screechy C flat. He smirked at you.

“Look at this. Look at it!”

You followed his finger onto his music sheet, which was in horrible condition, torn up and stained. You squinted at what he was gesturing at.

“A fermata? Please tell me you know what a fermata is.”

“Of course I do. But look at it. What does it look like?”

“A fermata,” you replied, unimpressed. “Now can I practice arpeggios again?”

“It looks like a boob!”

You snorted, your instrument once again wailing with despair from the sudden expulsion of air. You glared angrily at Bokuto.

“It’s not a boob! It’s clearly an eye!”

“Nah, that’s a boob. Look, if you draw—”

“Stop drawing on my music!” you screeched with horror. “That’s pen! Stop! _Stop!_ ”

Which, ironically, a fermata prevents.


	2. tie ; akaashi

_tie: a curved line connecting the heads of two notes of the same pitch and name, indicating that they are to be played as a single note with a duration equal to the sum of the individual notes' values._

“I can’t tie my damn tie.”

“Well, that’s a shame. When there’s a tie in music, you know you have to hold the note—”

“Bokuto, you _know_ I’m not talking about that kind of tie!” You glared at him exasperatedly, the school band’s tie hanging limply around your collar. You had no idea how to make it look good, and since Bokuto’s looked like it was done by a three year-old, you refused to stoop so low as to ask him for help. He laughed at you openly, ruffling your hair out of order.

“Good luck! Performance starts in three minutes, First Chair.”

“Argh!” you shouted after him. “Maybe I _won’t_ wear the stupid tie, then!”

“[Name]-san.”

The sudden voice behind you made you whirl around, nearly dropping your instrument to the floor in the process. Akaashi, First Violinist, smiled wryly as he pointed at your necktie.

“Do you need help?”

“Oh, what? U-um, sure.” 

He walked up to you and picked up the silk in his long, elegant fingers. You weren’t aware of how close he was until you suddenly felt his warm breath against your chin. His hands brushed against your neck.

“Sorry for making you do this,” you apologized dumbly, unsure of what else you could say when your (secret!) crush was standing so close. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bokuto pumping his fist silently, making kissy motions with his hands. You wanted to flip him off, but standing so close to Akaashi made you feel like you’d been turned into stone.

“That’s fine. I got quite good at this after tying Bokuto-san’s tie. Speaking of which… I should probably fix it for him.” He finished and tugged on your tie gently, straightening out. His smile could’ve been the cause of global warming and you hoped you weren’t too red-faced.

“Geez Akaashi, you’re like, the perfect mom. Or wife.” You hoped the joke would lighten the mood somewhat, because your own social awkwardness was crippling you beyond repair. Akaashi merely made a crooked grin that stopped your heart dead, 100% worsening your condition.

“I thought _you_ would be.”

With that, he left to fix Bokuto’s tie, and you had the sudden urge to strangle yourself with your own.


	3. solo ; kenma

_solo: a piece or a section of a piece played or sung by a single performer._

He had always been self-conscious about it. He regretted his choice, too. He could’ve chosen something like bassoon or oboe, trombone, or even _clarinet_ , but he’d chosen flute.

People thought he was weird for it. After all, he sat in a row of all girls. What other guy chose an instrument that sounded like the definition of feminine? He brushed chin-length hair behind his ear self-consciously, sighing as he slumped into his chair.

One day, you sat beside him, your regular seat having been shifted around. As an alto sax you should’ve been behind him, but because of the way the chairs had been scrambled, you had sidled up next to him. He always sat on the last chair of the row, hating to be looked at and wanting to be the first one out. Unfortunately, you took the edge seat away from him.

You smiled at him and he smiled back awkwardly—how do people even smile casually?—and looked away nervously. His heart seemed to be racing too fast and he kept imagining that you were closer than you really were. Suddenly, you tapped him on the knee just as he was about to tune and he about jumped out of his seat.

“Can I borrow a half of your stand? I don’t have one.”

“Oh… right. Yeah, sure.” He turned the stand to you, taking his phone off the edge and plopping it back onto his binder. He hoped you hadn’t seen that he was playing—

“You’re playing that game too?” you gasped, startling him further. “Man, I’ve been trying to beat the other guild for ages, but I always die because their knights are way too OP!”

He froze again, staring at you like a person might stare at a guy playing flute. 

“Yeah… uh, what guild are you in?” he asked quietly. 

You told him and he almost blushed.

“Me too…”

“Seriously? That’s—”

“Okay!” The concertmaster yelled from the head of the room. “The new piece, from measure 36; instruments up!”

You gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Talk later,” you mouthed, putting your saxophone up to your mouth. He didn’t play at this section so he tried to watch as discreetly as he could, glancing at you out the corner of his eye. You played dutifully and sitting so close, he could hear the emphasis you put into each note, the _emotion_ —

At measure 64, he put his flute up, and began to play after the rest. The rest of the instruments died away in a decrescendo to make way for the soli. He had always hated playing in section solos because he was just that much heard. The thing about a flute was that it was hardly ever heard in a big band, drowned out by saxophones and brass. Still, he felt your eyes on him and felt obliged to play a bit harder than normal, with a bit more life.

He saw the concertmaster call for stop with his fist and lowered his instrument. He glanced at you and realized you were staring, open jawed. Immediately he felt as if he’d done something wrong and flinched.

“What?” he asked hesitantly.

“You play… so well! That’s _way_ beyond high school level. D-do you take private lessons? Did you practice earlier?”

“No, I’m sight reading…”

“The hell? Kuroo! Hey, Kuroo!” You waved down the concertmaster and began pointing at Kenma excitedly, much to his total despair. “You’ve gotta turn the soli into a solo!”

“Was that you, Kenma?” Kuroo asked with a grin, pointing. He was about to spit out a ‘nope’ when you grinned and nodded.

“Let’s take it from the top and give him a solo,” you declared boastfully. The entire band was muttering now. He wanted to cringe and sink himself into a hole forever, but there was no time, because Kuroo’s baton went back up.

“Why’d you do that?” he demanded when practice was over. People were whispering behind hands and he could tell it was about him. “What if I didn’t _want_ the solo?”

“But you do, don’t you?”

That shut him up. 

At first, he had hated you for it. You’d assumed for him, taking charge when you had no place! But… playing the section alone had more weight than playing with the others. There was no need to stay in time with everybody else, even when they were out of time. He didn’t need to match or support anybody. He could just be himself. He’d never had that feeling before, so he had no reply to your smug grin.

“Add me.” You pulled at his wrist and took a sharpie out, writing down your friend code for the game. You packed up your saxophone and grinned at him, tapping his flute on the head. “You play great. I’m super glad I met you, Kenma!”

“Uh… you too, [Name].”

He wasn't sure how a single girl got him to play a solo for the first time ever, and he wasn’t sure why he felt so okay being on a first-name basis with you when he hadn’t even known you before. He looked down at his wrist, smiling faintly at your messy writing.

Maybe these unknowns were okay.


	4. fortissimo ; yamaguchi

_fortissimo: a passage marked to be performed very loudly._

“It’s no use,” Yamaguchi sighed during half-time break. “Nobody hears the clarinets anyways. I shouldn’t even try.”

“What do you mean?!” you exclaimed through a mouthful of crumbs. Although eating while playing a woodwind was a big no-no, Yamaguchi had offered you some of his homemade cookies, and there was nothing on the Earth or in the heavens that could have stopped you from saying yes. “You guys are super important!”

“Are we, though?” he said wryly. “Nobody would notice if I stopped playing—”

“Shh!” you hissed, the action bringing a spray of crumbs down your front. You brushed them off. “Tadashi, you are vital to this band. Everybody is. If you stop playing, _I’ll_ know!”

He looked surprised for a second before bursting out in a fit of giggles. That eased your concern. You hated it whenever Yamaguchi felt bad about himself, so seeing him laugh was a huge relief. When you sat next to him, the freckles on his nose arranged themselves into a sixteenth note, and you had to fight yourself from tracing it on his skin with your finger.

“I’m going to go back to my seat,” you said hurriedly, noticing the first chair’s angry look at the half-eaten treat in your hand. You patted Yamaguchi’s leg and was about to stand before hesitating.

“What is i—?” he started to ask, and you cut him off by delivering a firm (and chocolaty) kiss to his forehead.

“You’re the only one I hear in my heart,” you said softly, realizing how stupid it sounded only when it was out of your mouth. You darted back off to your seat, ignoring him when he called your name. You hid behind your stand until rehearsal re-commenced, and only then did you have the courage to peek up over your stand.

He was smiling. And you could hear him loud and clear, even with the rest of the band playing.


	5. duet ; kageyama

_duet: a performance by two people._

“Wrong!”

“God!” you shouted back, about ready to crack your violin bow over his head. He glared up at you from his seat on the piano bench and you scowled right back, almost shaking with your fury.

“If I’m going to be forced to play this soli with you, at least play it _right_ ,” he hissed.

“It _was_ ,” you growled through gritted teeth. “There was absolutely _nothing_ wrong with how I played that.”

“It says pianissimo. That was _forte_. You missed a staccato and you held that E flat for a sixteenth beat too long. That was a trash performance. Can you even _read_ music?”

“I am _literally_ going to strangle you, Kageyama.” You slammed your violin down on top of the grand piano angrily, shaking your head. “I’m taking a break.”

“When you get back, you had better be prepared to play better than an infant!” he called after you as you left. As you stalked off to the washroom, you ran into Yachi, who smiled at you.

“[Name]-chan! How’s that soli with Kag—”

“Awful!” you shouted, your voice echoing down the hall. Then you remembered that Yachi was a violinist too and hastily grabbed her shoulders, shaking her frail frame around wildly. “Yacchan, please. Switch spots with me!”

“M-me? I can’t, I’m a second violinist! And you’re much better than me!” Her voice wobbled as you shook her.

“No, you don’t understand. I can’t spend a single second with that guy without wanting to chuck a baritone at his grumpy little face!”

“But he said that it had to be you.”

“And—wait, what?” Your ranting was cut short as Yachi pushed your hands off of her gently, smiling brightly.

“When Sugawara-san asked him if he wanted to play with a different violinist, he said it had to be you.” She suddenly frowned and brushed her blonde hair into the shape of his bangs, speaking in a low and gruff voice. “‘It has to be her. Nobody else can match me.’ ...or something like that.”

“Match him…?”

“It’s no joke that Kageyama-kun’s the best player in the band. He thinks you’re the only one good enough to play with him. Give it another try, [Name]-chan. I know you can do it.”

When you went back into the music room, he was scribbling on his music. A closer look revealed the notes to be highlighting of dynamics and measure signs. 

“You really care about this, don’t you?” you asked slowly. He jumped when he heard your voice and the calm expression slid off of his face into the customary scowl.

“So? I just don’t want to screw it up. But you’re making that really damn hard.”

You sighed, Yachi’s words in your head. _Give it another try._

“We won’t,” you promised. You picked up your violin and rested it onto your shoulder, adjusting your stand, his baffled look not lost in your peripheral. You gave him a pointed look. “Tell me what to do.”

“...really?” he asked, pressing his tone seriously. You nodded.

“...okay. Fine.” He hesitated before seeming to agree. He gestured at your music and you started making notes. “If you play with glissando at measure 35, it’ll sound smoother. And then, if we work together on the dynamics at measure 39…”

When the two of you played again, Sugawara, the concertmaster, gestured at the two of you happily.

“They sound like they’re made for each other, don’t they?” he asked with a happy sigh. Asahi rolled his eyes.

“We all know you put them together for the soli because you want to see them date…”

“Hundred fifty yen that they’ll kiss before the winter symphonic!” Nishinoya cried out, butting in. Daichi scoffed and crossed his arms with haughty confidence.

“Two hundred that they’ll kiss before the _fall_ performance!”


	6. spit valve ; nishinoya

__

water key: a valve or tap used to allow the drainage of accumulated fluid. It is otherwise known less euphemistically as a spit valve.

Nishinoya wasn’t the best player in the world, that much was for sure—but everybody, including you, loved him like he was better.

Nishinoya Yuu was pretty much the only guy who was energetic enough to be smiling during five AM rehearsals. In a way he reminded you of the sun, warming everybody up and perking all the wilting flowers and trees to their full strength. Just being around him made you feel better—more confident in yourself. You could’ve done anything if it would’ve made him laugh.

So, it was pretty obvious that you had a crush on him. The only person who didn’t seem to realize this, however, was Nishinoya himself.

Still, this was okay with you for the time being. You pretty much went into ventricular fibrillation every time he looked at you, so there was no way you would survive confessing to him. For the moment, you were content with being friends with him. As a trumpeter you were somehow lucky enough to sit next to him, and the boredom and difficulty of practices were relieved by your shared inside jokes and muffled laughter.

But nothing is ever perfect.

“Agh!” you screeched, practically leaping away from him. He looked up, startled, and other people around you jumped as well.

“What is it?!” he asked hurriedly, jumping to his feet and looking around as if trying to find somebody to beat up. “What happened?!”

“Don’t empty your spit valve on my leg!” you screamed with distress. You’d worn your gym shorts to practice and the innards of his instrument gleamed on your bare calf. You nearly retched at the thought. “ _How could you_?!”

You hobbled off to find a paper towel and some sanitizer, Nishinoya watching afterwards with guilty despair. After all, the only person who didn’t know about his crush on you… was you.

Tanaka—the timpani player—leant over and snickered. 

“Nice one. I thought getting your crush wet was third base?”


	7. mallets ; sugawara

_mallets: a wooden or plastic stick with a rounded head, used to play certain percussion instruments such as xylophone and marimba._

“Has anybody seen my mallets?!”

“Suga. You’re head of percussion. You’re the keeper of the mallets and it looks like everybody else has theirs,” Asahi reminded as he passed by, carting along his saxophone. 

“But _mine_ aren’t here, are they now!?” the grey-haired boy sneered, sighing loudly with exasperation right afterwards. He was ready to tear his hair out. “God, what am I going to do? Dai’s going to kill me!”

“Looking for… these?”

He whirled around to see you dangling the mallet bag from your finger, the other curled in a beckoning way. He reached for them gratefully but you suddenly yanked them out of reach, shaking your head teasingly.

“[Name]!” Sugawara complained, hand still outstretched in the hopes that you’d give them back without a fuss. When you didn’t he sighed and prompted you with: “you _know_ how Daichi gets when people aren’t ready for rehearsals!”

“Which is why you’ll want to answer me. Honestly. Right?” You batted your eyelashes in a petty way that Sugawara found strangely charming—very hot—but also very _annoying_.

“Fine, fine,” he said hastily, wringing his hands together nervously and coming closer to you. “What? What do you want?”

“I want you to admit it. You’re depressed that Kageyama took your role as a pianist.”

“What?” Sugawara had been ready for an onslaught of embarrassing questions like _who’s your crush_ or _lost the v-card?_ , but he hadn’t expected that. You took a mallet out of the bag and tapped it on your chin, pouting thoughtfully. You looked up at him, insight in your wide eyes.

“Admit it, Koushi. You’ve been all pent up and angsty. You’re mad that you got delegated to the xylophone when you want to play piano. Am I right?”

“You’re… well…” He didn’t want to say it, because although you were right, he’d spent the entire season trying to convince everybody that he was fine. He swallowed hard and eyed the mallet bag hungrily.

“Koushi,” you said, suddenly more softly. “I’m not going to lie and say that Kageyama sucks. He’s good. He’s the best I’ve ever seen. And it must hurt, having to be pulled away from what you love… right?”

“…yeah. It sucks that I-I spent all those years practicing, but now it’s my last year and I stand in the back to play xylophone…” Sugawara suddenly laughed caustically, staring down at the floor, hating himself for feeling this way. Why was he so bitter about it? It was the best move for the band, everybody knew, but he was still jealous, and it still hurt.

“Here.”

Sugawara looked up as you handed him the mallet bag. He accepted it, almost incredulously, not believing that you’d given them up so easily. After you handed over the mallets, you engulfed him in a hug, stretching up onto your tippy toes and nestling your head into the crook of his neck. His arms wrapped around you awkwardly as he tried to juggle the mallets.

“No matter what they say,” you whispered. “You’re the star. It doesn’t matter that you stand in the back or that a first year’s playing piano instead of you... You’re my star.”

“[Name]…?”

“ _Where the hell is Sugawara_?!” Daichi bellowed from inside the band room. “Practice started _two_ minutes ago!”

You jumped away from him, wide-eyed, and he immediately missed the warmth of your body. You smiled a bit sheepishly and was already heading away before you turned around, walking backwards.

“Got it?” you called with a shy grin. “You’re _mine_.”

Suddenly, Sugawara knew that metal bars weren’t the only things he was going to be hitting on.


	8. tuba ; asahi

_tuba: a large brass wind instrument of bass pitch, with three to six valves and a broad bell typically facing upward._

It was no use denying it to yourself anymore. You definitely had a crush on the band’s Gentle Giant: Asahi Azumane. 

At first, you didn’t know _why_ you liked him; maybe you were just simply into guys who looked like they could punt you to the moon as easy as they could squish a grape. But later, you realized that it was him as a whole, and there wasn’t one part of him that made you fall out of love—but deeper in. He was an album and every track was woven gold. He was the sweetest, kindest, most thoughtful, most genuine—well, you could’ve gone on forever, but it was futile to lie to yourself any longer. Were you going to tell him about it? You didn’t want to ruin the friendship you already had, so you bit your tongue, hoping it would pass.

It didn’t.

The brass section was always loud, what with people like Nishinoya and Tanaka taking up the stead, but Asahi was a refuge of peace from them. Sure, you liked everybody, but Asahi felt special. You jumped at the chance to sit next to him, embarrassingly so. But you always felt like a clingy dog pawing at somebody’s leg. Asahi never treated you with anything farther than polite kindness. Of course, the both of you were great friends, but you worried that things weren’t going to roll any farther than that. Still, you swallowed you disappointment, convincing yourself that friendship was better than nothing at all.

“Asahi-san! Let me help you with that!”

“What—oh, [Name]. You don’t have to.” He tried to juggle the folders of sheet music and you shook your head.

“Look at you; you’re carrying 100 things. Here, I’ll get your tuba.” You were a brass player of your own, so you knew the inconveniences of trying to lug the gigantic loops of metal around. But you didn’t anticipate just how heavy Asahi’s tuba really _was_ until it was too late. What the hell was this, a bag of bricks?!

“Thanks. You’re a real life saver, y’know?”

“No problem!” you wheezed, trying to sound as if your spine wasn’t collapsing onto itself. You smiled weakly, wishing his case was one of the ones with wheels. “You know you can ask me for anything, right?”

“Are you okay?” he asked, slowing to a stop. “Is that too heavy for you?”

“Nope!” you barked out, feeling the sweat breaking onto your brow. But you didn’t want to look weak in front of him and chippered up, straightening. “I could carry ten of these!”

“We could switch,” he offered, but you began to speed off, wishing that his destination was close so that you could put the damn thing down already.

“It’s fine!” you called behind you. Your arms burned, as did your legs (really, how much did this thing weigh?!) before it weighed nothing at all. Confused, you wondered if it’d suddenly been teleported into the sixth dimension when it was replaced with a lighter stack of papers.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Asahi said in what was supposed to be a scolding tone, but sounded incredibly gentle. “Jeez.”

“Hey. I was handling it,” you pouted. Still, you walked alongside him again, holding his papers a bit glumly. You didn’t want to seem _useless_ , and here you were, unable to carry a damn tuba.

“Whoa, what the…?” Asahi suddenly stopped and put down the black case, his brow slashed with a frown. You stopped too.

“What is it?” you asked, concerned at the actual fear that you thought you spotted in his eyes. 

“This is way too heavy.” 

He flipped up the silver buckles and you screamed, nearly dropping the papers everywhere when Nishinoya Yuu popped out, breathing hard. His face was red but he was grinning, his finger suddenly jabbed in your direction as he clambered out of the case.

“Gotcha’! I was going to come out when you guys kissed, but you took so damn long! God, Asahi! Are you an old man or something?! Get it up!”

“K-kissed?” he stammered out, his complexion deepening so much that his brown hair looked fair in comparison. “I—what—”

“Well? I didn’t cram myself into this stupid tuba case for nothing!” Nishinoya put his hands on his hips expectantly, his hair pressed flat from having been curled up in the case for so long. Asahi swallowed thickly, his large hazel eyes flicking towards you nervously. You met his gaze, your heart racing erratically, faster than 200 bpm. He raised a tentative eyebrow and, lips parted, you nodded slowly. 

“Wait, you’re seriously going to—?!”

“Is this a little too mean?” you asked, watching the tuba case roll back and forth like a turtle on its back in the middle of the hallway. Nishinoya’s muffled yelling was incoherent. Asahi shrugged.

“Not if we let him out soon.”

You chuckled. “What about never? But I guess… he did…” Under your breath, you hastily muttered, _brought up a good point_ in the hopes that it’d sink into Asahi’s sub-conscious. 

“I guess he… kind of…” You heard him murmur something too quickly for you to catch, so you looked up to try and read his lips.

“What?”

“…I should just do it, right? Like… just go for it?”

“What are you talking abo—mmfgh!”

Needless to say, Nishinoya was not let out of the case until very much later, having been forgotten at the moment by the both of you.


	9. [sharp ; shirabu]

_sharp: higher in pitch by a semitone (half step)_

Shirabu was not known to be one of the _nicest_ fellows in band, to say the least. He was a damn good player, that much was for sure, but “team player” was not on Shirabu’s list of traits. 

“You’re flat, Goshiki.”

The younger trumpet player lowered his instrument to adjust the tuning slide. Ever since Shirabu had become concertmaster in his second year, instead of being chosen in third year as was per tradition, Shirabu had gotten an ego that rivalled Tendou’s. You watched Shirabu make a disgusted face as Goshiki rung out a perfect B flat.

“Sharp, Goshiki.”

Poor Goshiki’s face fell as he nudged the tuning slide. Another acceptable B flat rang out through the band room and Shirabu hummed.

“Flat.”

Goshiki adjusted it.

“Sharp.”

Goshiki adjusted it.

“Sharper.”

“Shirabu-senpai?” Goshiki finally asked, after having been adjusting his tuning slide for so long that Beethoven could’ve been revived, “are you like… _sure_ that I’m not in tune?”

“Hm… let me think about that—I thought about it. Yes.”

“Kenjirou,” you piped up, sighing, having had enough of his antics. His brown eyes turned to you as you shrugged. “Let the kid go. He’s in tune.”

Goshiki turned around to face you, his eyes practically welling with tears of gratitude. “I am?”

You nodded your affirmation. Shirabu rolled his eyes, suddenly getting up, shoving his baton in the back pocket of his pants. He waved authoritatively at you.

“Everybody, keep warming up. I need to talk with [Name] for a minute.”

Despite his easy-going tone, you doubted that the keen-eyed boy had anything good to say. Hell, he’d probably tell you that your voice was undesirably flat. Still, you diligently followed him into the soundproof room, feeling a bit imprisoned as he closed the door with a gentle _click_ behind you.

“What is it, Kenjirou?” you asked tiredly, expecting him to go off on a rant on you. Instead, he merely leant forward. You took a startled step backwards, hard soundproof foam hitting your back as he pressed you into the wall. Arms caged you, his scent enveloping you first before you tasted him. His lips were hot on you, messily tracing your jaw. 

“Don’t favour the first years,” he said breathily, after your face had settled into the crook of his neck. His voice seemed to reverberate through you, giving you chills. “I’ll get jealous.”

“What if that was my plan all along?” you replied in the same, coy tone, “get you all hot… and bothered... so that I could take…!” Your hand, which had been tracing down his back and lower, nabbed the conducting baton from his pocket. He stepped back, startled, as you slapped the thin piece of plastic in your hand smugly. 

“You just wanted to conduct,” Shirabu concluded after processing your expression, an annoyed but amused look tracing his wry smile. “Really? You thought this far ahead just for that?”

“Not so sharp now, are you?” you whispered back to him, a smirk on your lips. “Fell a little… _flat_?”

His smile disappeared and he rolled his eyes. His lips hit your forehead before he muttered a, “don’t make me regret letting you lead,” silencing you before another bad joke could tumble out of your lips.


	10. # ; hinata

_#: sharp. raises the pitch of the note by a semitone or half step_

“Hey, Saddy-yama. Stop looking so emo for a second.”

“What, dumbass?” Kageyama asked tiredly, lifting the violin from his shoulder. He scowled. “Don’t call me ‘saddy-yama’. What does that even mean?”

“You’re the best at music notation, so can you help me read this?”

Kageyama perked up. It wasn’t often that he got to show off his talent, especially to the proud Hinata, so he happily took the paper from the orange haired boy. His face immediately fell when there was a lack of bars or measures. In fact, only two things were written:

**# ?**

“See, the hashtag thingy means like, flat, right—”

“It means _sharp_!” Kageyama interjected, horrified that Hinata could make such an elementary mistake. Hinata waved off the dark haired boy impatiently, grabbing the small note back.

“Whatever! So is it like… _sharp?_ Or like… do question marks mean something in music.”

“Maybe whoever gave this to you is trying to tell you that you’re out of tune, but they were too nice to say it to your face.” Kageyama huffed, putting his violin back to his shoulder. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Kageyama, you’re so mean! I’m never out of tune!”

Hinata was right. Despite having the least amount of experience, Hinata had been gifted with some sort of innate ability to play, and could practically play by ear after listening to the piece once. But his talent had no match for simple reading ability, so the #? had him stumped. 

“Whatever. I don’t know what it means. Why don’t you just ask the person who gave it to you?”

“Because—!” Hinata exclaimed, before looking around. He pulled on Kageyama’s ear, jerking him away from the violin so he could whisper mutedly, “ _because_ , [Name]-chan was the one who gave it to me.”

“So? Ask her. She’s nowhere near as dumb as you. She’s a lot better than you, too.”

“Wh—that’s the point! I don’t need her to know how dumb I am!”

“What’s the ruckus all about?” Sugawara asked, rolling in the stand cart from the storage room. His brow furrowed as he eyed Hinata suspiciously. “Why aren’t you warmed up?”

“Suga-senpai, what does this mean?” Hinata thrust the note out to the older boy, who caught it in a hand. He peered down at it for no more than 2 seconds before shrugging.

“‘Number?’”

“Number… like number what? Which chair number? ID number? Man, girls are so confusing!” Hinata wailed, having completely given up on life. Sugawara actually rubbed his temples, sighing.

“Like your _phone number_. Whoever gave you this note just wants your phone number.”

“Idiot Hinata,” Kageyama scoffed from the side. Hinata’s swell of happiness from Sugawara’s decoding burst and he knocked Kageyama upside the head.

“You didn’t get it either, Kageyama!”

Needless to say, you were kept waiting for quite a lot longer than you had expected—but it was still worth it. Hinata’s serenades over the phones made it very easy for you to forgive him. Still, you’d learnt your lesson about trying to be cryptic around the simple-minded boy.


	11. semi-tone ; semi

_semitone: the smallest interval used in classical Western music, equal to a twelfth of an octave or half a tone; a half step._

“That’s not right.”

“Don’t you think I _know_?” Semi retorted hotly, scowling as he pushed a hand up through his messy hair. His drumsticks dangled from the other hand as he ducked, checking the floor tom.

“What’s up with you?” you shot back, stung by his nasty tone. Semi usually spoke in an upbeat way, with occasional sprinkles of healthy sarcasm, but he had nothing but lip for you all day. You sat in front of the drum set, crossing your arms. “You’re usually pretty good at tuning these.”

“That damn kid Shirabu screwed up my set-up. I knew I should’ve told him off. Dammit.” He sat up straight again, hitting the drum. The overtones warbled and he scowled, ducking back down to re-adjust. You spoke to the top of his head, sighing.

“C’mon. I know you’ve got beef with him for taking your spot, but even Wakatoshi admits that Kenjirou’s a good player.”

“What, you guys are on a first name basis now?” Semi asked, shooting back upright. His frown deepened. “You think he’s better than me? He can’t even freestyle. He just stares at the music sheet like some sort of...”

“That’s _why_ he’s leading percussion,” you interrupted before Semi could spit out an insult that’d get his mouth washed out with soap. “You never follow the sheet. I’m not saying that’s bad, but keeping time and rhythm is more important in this piece. You keep putting everybody off when you improv. We’d never win gold during festivals if you don’t play the same piece as everybody else.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, seeming to ignore your solid reasoning completely. He hit the drum, but even you could tell that it was still a half step too flat. With a grumble, Semi slammed his sticks down, sitting back in his seat and groaning loudly. “What. Ever.”

“Sem—”

“Look, I _know_ he’s better than me. I’m just… bitter about it. Okay? Can’t a guy just be mad about things like that?”

You couldn’t help but give a small sigh of pity as you looked at him. It was the last year of band, and he’d gotten booted off of lead. By a younger guy, too. You knew where he was coming from. You knew what he felt. With a small sigh of defeat, you got up, dusting off your knees.

“I’ll get my bass guitar.”

“For what?” he asked, his anger turning into genuine confusion as he straightened back up in his seat. You rolled your eyes. 

“Isn’t it obvious? Background support for your drum solo.”

“What drum solo…?”

“The one you’re going to do with me right now. Even if you can’t play lead on the concert piece, we can at least have fun together. That’s what music’s about, isn’t it?” You raised an eyebrow. Following you, Semi’s grin was restored, spreading across his face with radiance.

“Well, only if you can keep up with me.” He took his sticks back up and tapped the drum’s surface, and you smiled back when it was perfectly in tune. Whether he liked it or not, you and Semi were on the same wavelength, and you always knew which knobs to pull to make him right again.


	12. [cut time ; daichi]

__

_cut time: a 4/4 time signature that's been rhythmically “cut” to manipulate rhythm and/or tempo._

Time always seems to drag and drag and drag until it’s gone.

It wasn’t hard to get to know people in the smaller town of Torono. Maybe it was a bad thing to always be surrounded by the same people. They would always remember how you were in your bad phase(s) and always watch you fumble—at least, in the big cities, you could melt away from your past and be done with it. No luck in a small town. Beats seemed to follow you everywhere you went, no matter how much you would’ve liked to have a rest.

Sawamura Daichi was the senior concertmaster, and for good reason. A steady drummer and an even better conductor, Daichi had practically built up the band with his own two hands. With his charisma, sound talent, and raw leadership, he was able to revive Karasuno’s Concert Band into one of the best in Miyagi. He wanted to be there to see Karasuno in the top tiers of Japanese High Schools, but time is always, _always_ too short.

You weren’t even as much of a star as Daichi was. You played well enough to hold a seat, but you were no prodigy like the tenth-year newbies were showing to be. You could follow along a sheet of music just fine, but you would never be a soloist. You just had to sit back and be content with second chair, second best—and the hunger of the pine.

Somewhere along the way you had lost your faith. Nobody could blame you for it. Daichi was immensely popular. He was an attractive, athletic, academic, talented guy—who _wouldn’t_ trip over their feet into some stupid crush for him? Besides, he seemed to like that Michimiya girl, and you didn’t have the guts to intervene and confess your own feelings. Rationalizing and procrastinating turned into a deep chasm of self-deprecation, and you didn’t have the heart to fight for your heart. So, you let it be, just as you let the music be; just as you let the time be. 

And then it was too late.

Graduation day—the last performance. It was funny to see your graduating year 12 bandmates in their nice outfits while the rest were in the simple band uniform. After playing, the lot of you would have to rush to the back of the gymnasium as discreetly as possible for assembly. It was kind of silly to have the graduating class perform at their own ceremony, but you didn’t quite mind. As much as the practices were grueling or time-consuming, you didn’t think you were quite ready for it to be all over.

Your heels clacked on hardwood tiles and your instrument bounced in your hand. Fondly, you touched the keys that’s been tattooed on the forefront of your mind. With university fast approaching, you had made the decision to quit band. After all, it’d just been a meantime thing. An extra-curricular to boost up your student resume and look tastier to those fussy schools. You weren’t particularly talented, but at least you had these memories.

Your eyes caught onto Daichi’s sparkling brown ones. They gleamed in the dark, his stand light looking very much like a dainty firefly hovering in the air. Being a senior, you got to sit in the first row, and was that much closer to him. He gave you a secretive, reassuring smile that you must’ve hallucinated. Your heart was pounding in your ear, the performance nerves and embarrassment suddenly crashing over your sense of hearing. Even after three years, you couldn’t get over him, even though there was nothing to get over at all. Staring furiously at the end of the baton, you could only bring yourself to breathe and play when it struck the centre line. You didn’t know who you were angrier at: him, for never being more attainable; or you, for never trying.

When everything was said and done, the brass’ last breath dying out in the silent air, you could only sigh with disappointment. That was it. That was the end. No fireworks, no big bang—that was it. 

The senior upperclassmen rose and scrambled around the foyer to re-enter the assembly hall from the back. You shuffled with them, a dark feeling of emptiness opening up like a deep pit in your gut. You couldn’t help but resent yourself for wasting your time. Sure, you’d had good memories, but… this was _it_. Time had run out. Everybody was leaving to pursue their dreams, and you had buried yours in the past.

Time was so easily counted and so easily lost.

“Hey.”

You jumped, startled at the sudden, soft voice by your side. You looked up to Daichi’s face and felt a cold shock of adrenaline hit you when he smiled again, almost wryly.

“Good playing.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, eyes darting back up to the master of ceremonies, who was droning on and on about some inspirational quote pulled from the internet. Eyes fluttering, you returned his smile sheepishly. “Thanks to you for driving those practices, I guess.”

The low chuckle made your heart wobble and he ran a hand back through his short dark hair. His eyes were also turned to the front, but you could tell that his attention was still on you.

“We’re finally graduating. Time flies, huh?”

“It does,” you agreed stiffly, feeling the same wave of remorseful melancholy flow over you. You tapped your foot absentmindedly, sighing regretfully. “It really does.”

“You know, I never got to ask you—”

A sharp _shh!_ rang out, interrupting him before he could finish. You turned to see a teacher glaring at you. Daichi bit down on his words and then shrugged, turning away from you to the front once more. Your brain jumped anxiously. What had he meant to say? _I never got to ask you if you wanted to return your instrument deposit_? Or maybe something else?

It wasn’t like you were strangers with him. And it wasn’t like you _only_ knew him from band. He was in your homeroom, so you shared most classes with him anyways. But your interactions with him never really strayed far from friendly curtesy. It was always the boring ‘how was your day?’ and ‘what did you do for the homework?’. You never felt that things would go any farther than that with him, except during band. During band practice, you felt that much closer to him. You felt like you knew him better whenever he played, whenever you played—

But what does it matter? It was over before it began.

His hand brushed against your knee and you realized he was leaning over to whisper in your ear. His breath tickled phantom hairs and you shuddered.

“I was thinking we could go out after this.”

It was almost like a joke. You nearly laughed. After years of moping about how you’d never be able to taste requited feelings from the boy you liked, he was just… asking you out?

When faced with your silence he continued, a bit hastily, in a dorky way that made your heart swell. “Only if you want to. Since we probably won’t see each other a lot after, I just thought…”

“I’d love to!” you said hurriedly, earning another disgruntled _shh_ from the nearby teacher. Unable to swallow the confusion, you decided to merely ignore it, and nodded rapidly instead.

“I’m sorry I never really asked to spend time with you earlier,” he whispered, and despite the room full of people, it felt like he was the only person in your world at all. Time felt frozen as his eyes danced over your features. “And this is sudden, I know. But thinking about being away from you… it’s sad. So I figure we should try and do something about it. Y’know?”

“Well… we have some time until then.” Eagerness made your voice tremble, but for once, you allowed yourself some hope.

Your fingers laced with his on their own, but for once, you stopped overthinking it. You just let it be. You let your heart set the pace, and for once, you took the jump to follow it.

**Author's Note:**

> Elsewhere: https://goo.gl/GBsO4y


End file.
